Runny Thoughts

In A Bit Of A Fix

I have blogged before (here) about how the Classical Music industry could and should learn from sport. The events of the past week have thrown up another instance.

First, a bit of background.

The News of the World revelations about alleged ‘spot-fixing’ in cricket have caused, it is safe to say, a bit of a stir. The moral high ground is now more crowded than Groucho Marx’s cabin as commentators, ex-players, bloggers and ordinary-men-in-the-street wring their hands while simultaneously throwing them up in the air in horror (quite a feat when you’re also balancing on the High Wire of Hypocrisy).

Most laughable was the look on ECB chairman Giles Clarke’s face as he handed Mohammed Aamer his Man Of The Series award. Obviously Clarke himself is above criticism and has never associated with shady characters or accepted money for actions that could endanger the future of global cricket. Oh no. Of course not.

Anyway, the ins and outs of the case (and they are complex) are not my concern.

Cricket has its problems, but Classical Music has been beset by similar headaches for years, with performances being manipulated by betting syndicates shamefully indifferent to the effect on an unsuspecting concert-going public.

The following is a brief extract from a conversation held in a central London hotel this week. Full details are in the hands of the police, and I have obviously had to change some names to protect the probably-guilty.

Man A: So we’re talking big money?

Man B: You’d be amazed. Spot betting on Proms has escalated hugely in the last few years. All the money’s in the little details: wrong entries, split notes, all that kind of stuff. Enough to be noticed, but not enough to disrupt the performance as a whole.

Man A: And you can arrange it?

Man B: OK, let’s go into details. This is just to prove that I have these guys in my pocket, ok? Tomorrow night’s Prom, in the overture, the principal horn will split the third note of his solo.

Man A (taking notes): The third note in the overture.

Man B: That’s right. The Bb. Then at the beginning of the recapitulation of the last movement of the concerto, the pianist will have a memory lapse and go into the wrong key. He will be out for a whole bar.

Man A: OK. Wrong key in recap.

Man B: And the third event that we will arrange is at the beginning of the main allegro in the first movement of the symphony.

Man A: Allegro in symphony.

Man B: the flautist will play double speed for half a bar and then correct himself.

Man A: OK I think that’s all clear. Thanks. Here’s the first payment.

(Sounds of money being counted).

Man A: Second payment to follow after the concert.

Man B: Thanks. Believe me, you could make a lot of money on this.

Man A: Just one question.

Man B: Fire away.

Man A: Do you ever fix events with conductors? You know, dodgy upbeats, wrong tempi, that kind of thing?

Man B (snorts derisively): Tchah! You have to be kidding. Who’s going to notice another mistake by those guys?

Man A: Fair point. Nice doing business with you.

Unclassical Brits

So apparently people in this country don’t know very much about Classical Music.

Sorry, wrong link. Here’s the right one.

Well cover me in suet and hang me out for the blue tits, my gast is absolutely flabbered. British people in ‘lack of cultural values’ shock - something mustn’t be done!

Incidentally, the most surprising thing about that poll was the fact that only 4% thought Bocconcini was a composer. I have to say that I had to look twice, and on reflection it seems to me eminently plausible that there was, somewhere in Italy, a Luigi Bocconcini who wrote thirty-six bel canto operas between 1815 and 1856, with such titles as Edwina, Contessa di Basingstoke, Myfanwy di Brecon or Il Massacro di Naseby. In fact, it as about as much as I can to do to restrain myself from creating a Wikipedia article about him.

In other musical news, we also learned today that X-Factor contestants have their wrong notes ‘auto-tuned’ prior to broadcast. Now I do find that genuinely amazing. You mean to say that Jedward sound like that after their voices have been treated?

Sheesh.

The two findings do seem to contradict each other, though. On the one hand, the Reader’s Digest says that we don’t know our Arne from our Elgar; on the other, X-Factor producers have touching and, on all available evidence, unfounded faith in their viewers’ ability to tell the difference between right and wrong notes.

Anyhoo, it’s not my intention to make fun of the X-Factor, although it is, of course, great fun (and in the interests of full disclosure I should confess that I have been, in the past, as avid a viewer of the programme as anyone, enjoying it as much as any ‘Factor’ programme since its venerable ancestor ‘Krypton’).

What I’m really here to do, distrustful as I am of the validity of the Reader’s Digest little exam, is to conduct some research of my own. To this end I’ve compiled this quiz. See how you do and post your scores below.

1. Beethoven was
a) Blind
b) Deaf
c) Merely the owner of a very quiet fortepiano

2. Of which pastime was Mozart particularly fond?
a) Billiards
b) Mah-jongg
c) PS3

3. ‘Nessun dorma’ literally means
a) None shall sleep
b) I’m shouting my tits off
c) Come on you Eng-er-land

4. Danish composer Carl Nielsen’s most famous symphony is known as:
a) The Incorrigible
b) The Inextinguishable
c) The Interminable

5. Sir Edward Elgar kept his moustache in a specially-modified snuff box when not using it. True or false?

I am confident that the results will blow the Reader’s Digest’s spurious efforts out of the water.

If you enjoyed that, here’s a sample question from next week’s Art quiz:

Pablo Picasso
a) was a genius
b) couldn’t draw for toffee
c) knew some very strange-looking people

My number's up

The human mind works in very bizarre ways.

Well, mine does anyway.

The first thing that popped into my head when I read about the sad death of Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins tonight was ‘135’.

[The thought that followed it was ‘Alan Knott’, but that is irrelevant to this post and you would have to be a seriously sad sports-head (guilty as charged) to make the connection. I know at least one person, though, who will get it instantly. Looking forward to the comments.]

Sorry about that. Embedded parentheses - yuk.

The reason for this unwarranted intrusion from a number (one, incidentally, that is not even in my Top Ten of ‘Favourite Numbers Of The 1980s’) is that 135 was the break Higgins made to win the last frame of the 1982 world championship final. You can watch the end of it here. Even better is this one from the semi-final.

Now, I doubt that I have actively thought about that break, or that match, in about 28 years. But there it is, leaping into my head the moment I see the name Alex Higgins, as inextricably linked to it as the word ’vomit’ is to the words ‘Simon Cowell’.

The fact is, I spent such a large amount of my otherwise undistinguished childhood (there’s no need for snarky comments, thanks) inhaling sports and information pertaining thereto that there are some numbers that simply won’t go away. They rise unbidden to the surface at the slightest opportunity, causing my simple and trusting mind the deepest consternation and anguish.

8032, 6996, 365, 99.94, 197, 499, 19-90, 304.

Any cricket fan of the 1970s will recognise those. Sorry if you don’t count yourself among them. It is, I can assure you from my completely biased position, your loss.

But then there are others, not sports-related: 3.141592653538979323846 [I learned that, plus plenty more, from a postcard I bought at the Science Museum in Paris, where they had written it to a gazillion decimal places going round the ceiling of a circular room (I wonder if it’s still there?) - it has survived the intervening 33 years more or less intact, I find].

Sorry again. The good news is that embedded parentheses are forbidden to travel in groups of more than two by EU law.

Where was I? Oh yes, other numbers.

There are musical numbers that are as deeply entrenched as the sporting ones, of course: 9, 15, 104, 551, 626, 1048 and so on and on and on and on.

While we’re at it, and now that it’s too late for me to salvage my tattered reputation for suave man-about-townery: number plates. SFC832N, VJO731X.

Just don’t get me started on phone numbers.

By the way, if you have understood the significance of all the numbers quoted thus far, you are either my brother or have been stalking me for a very very long time.

So what does it all mean?

Well if you’re expecting profound discussion of the neuroanatomy of retention and the importance of the hippocampus in long-term memory consolidation, then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, as you may already have gathered.

But at least I’ve got all those numbers out of my head for a bit and it is now empty enough for me to watch Big Brother.

Thanks for that.

Note-By-Note

Classical Music (I capitalise it because it is Important) is missing a trick.

In these days of universal internet access, the coverage of Classical Music events remains hopelessly outdated.

Sure, there have been innovations such as the ‘Conductor-Cam’, whereby you can examine the maestro’s every wiggle in infini-slo-mo; or ‘Bat-ear’, which records and analyses individual players’ performances to see if they were actually playing all the notes or just busking their way through.

But while television presentation has moved with the times, written concert reviews remain dry, factual and boringly informative. I maintain that this is because they are written after the event, when the reviewer has had ample opportunity for calm reflection and consumption of over-the-counter sedatives.

In these modern days of instant gratification and on-the-hoof opinion, something more immediate is required. Perhaps Classical Music can look to Sport (also Important) for inspiration.

For several years now, sports fans too mean to pay for a Sky subscription have been familiar with the ‘live blog’ school of sports coverage, a handy way to experience live sporting events second-, or even third-hand.

Pioneered by the Guardian’s infamous ‘over-by-over’ cricket coverage of the 2005 Ashes, the genre has diversified to the extent that there is barely a sporting event that isn’t being covered by a sweaty journo somewhere, hunched over a laptop in a darkened room, hammering out 200 words a minute while trying to maintain the live TV feed on a Sky box held together with gaffer tape and spit.

‘Over-by-over’, ‘minute-by-minute’, ‘rally-by-rally’, ‘dart-by-dart’. Nothing is immune.

I’m looking forward to ‘snatch-by-snatch’ coverage of the weightlifting in the 2012 Olympics.

So how would this translate to Classical Music?

Glad you asked.

Always at the forefront of technological advances, Runny Thoughts is proud to bring you the first ever note-by-note (NBN) coverage of a classical music event.:

Proms 2010 live blog

Preamble

It doesn’t get bigger than this.

Plagued by its history of underachievement, Dutch classical music finally gets a chance to redeem itself after twenty-five years of hurt tonight, as the Concertgebouw Orchestra tackles one of the ‘Titans’ of the repertoire: Mahler’s First Symphony. Guess what its nickname is?

At the helm, Austrian maestro Heinrich von Shlumpff.

The orchestra has an unbeaten record against Mahler this season, subjecting the ‘titanic Teuton’ to some gruelling defeats on home soil.

But this is the Proms, and Dutch courage has been in woefully short supply here in Kensington since the glory days of ‘total music’ in the 1970s.

As for Maestro von Shlumpff, he comes to this fixture in dreadful form, desperately in need of the confidence boost that a good Proms run can bring. He’ll be looking for an early breakthrough.

The players have tuned up and here comes Maestro von S.

Toi toi everyone.

1 min: shaky start there, the violin harmonics not speaking properly. Always tough in damp conditions.

3 min: this is unimpressive so far from von S. He’s unsteady in tempo and missing cues left right and centre.

6 mins: the woodwinds beginning to get into the game gradually. Some nifty interplay between flutes and oboes.

8 mins: ooh that was shocking. Late challenge from the 3rd horn. Split it like a banana.

12 mins: I’m sorry but this is desultory stuff. Bad ensemble, dodgy intonation and no sense of adventure. Stodgy tempi from von Shlumpff who, in all honesty, is having an absolute shocker. Niggly conducting - why can’t he just let them play?

14 mins: Mahler says ‘frisches, belebtes Zeitmass’. Von Shlumpff says ‘not on your nelly, Gustav.’

16 mins: at last an injection of enthusiasm from the unlikeliest source: R.T. Thvack, the bespectacled timpanist. Pity it came too late. No use getting your game together in the coda.

End of first movement: Gus 1 Schlumpff 0.

An email!

“von Shlumpff is a notoriously bad starter, but has a great record in last movements. Don’t give up on him yet!”

Well I’m sorry, NLebrecht66, but so far it’s pisspoor, and some of us may have changed over to Andrew Graham-Dixon’s art docco by the last movement.

Peep! We’re off for a thigh-slapping Scherzo with some strudel in the middle.

2nd movement:

1 min: This is much more like it. Snappy articulation from the woodwinds in the opening phrase and excellent dynamic contrast throughout. it’s like listening to a different team.

2 min: you’ve got to love Mahler’s showmanship - bells in the air, everyone! And not a cracked note in sight.

4 min: ouch. How fragile it all is at this level. Principal horn Jean-Yves Embouchure makes a total hash of the linking solo and all that good work in the scherzo is undone. To be fair he’s having an indifferent season, but life is harsh at this level, and he will fear for his place in the next concert.

5 mins: it’s all fallen apart now. And I’m afraid the players must take some of the blame. The conductor can’t play the notes for them, and he looks horrified at some of the stuff going on out there, to be honest. These are professional musicians, but they look all at sea.

6 mins: the end of this movement can’t come soon enough for the demoralised musicians of the Concertgebouw. They’ll be looking to principal double bass Ferdinand van Roojsen to restore some pride early doors in the slow movement.

NLebrecht66 won’t give up. Here he is on the conditions: “don’t forget that the humidity and heat inside the Albert Hall are light years away from the air-conditioned comfort of their home concert hall. It’s so easy to underestimate the effect of the prevailing conditions if they haven’t had the chance to acclimatise properly.”

Sorry, Norm, that’s a load of guff and you know it. No excuses at this level.

That’s it for the 2nd movement, and this orchestra’s got a mountain to climb.

3rd movement:

1 min: you have to hand it to van Roojsen. That is a world-class double bass solo. The man is showing his pedigree. Can his colleagues respond?

2 min: no.

5 min: you still there? Mind if I join you?

7 min: get on with it!!!!

11 min: well that’s a small patch of my life I’ll never get back.

4th movement:

I’d like to say it’s nearly over, but the last movement is 20 minutes long.

1 min: Wow where the hell did that come from? Amazing opening to the last movement - daring, edge-of-the-seat tempo, pinpoint precision in the strings, and barnstorming brass playing. Perhaps von Shlumpff’s reputation as a coming-from-behind merchant is well-deserved after all. But has he left it too late?

5 min: this is magnificent stuff now. It’s as if they’ve suddenly remembered who they are. Either that or they’ve got a train to catch.

7 mins: that little luftpause was perfectly executed with magnificent understanding of the unique acoustic in this building. Conditions shmonditions. Take that NLebrecht66.

13 mins: this is turning into a procession. They have the symphony totally under control and are beginning to showboat, with breathtaking extremes of dynamic and devastatingly virtuosic passage work. Hats off.

14 mins: easy lads. Don’t get over-excited.

15 mins: ok I take it back. They know EXACTLY what they are doing. Who cares about the rubbish in the first three movements? The heart of the symphony is right here, in the finale, and they know it.

18 mins: slight over-confidence there from the horns, but calmly corrected by von Shlumpff. He’s proving himself a true Mahlerian. I was down on him early on, but what do I know?

20 mins: quite simply staggering stuff in the finale. They were all over the coda like a rash and ultimately produced a performance that will take some beating. All the reservations I had in the earlier movements were swept away by the sheer perfection of the finale, and it was exhilarating to hear an orchestra grow in stature right in front of you.

They’ve laid down a marker for the rest of the festival in the sweltering Albert Hall tonight.Are you listening, Berlin Phil?

Thanks for following it with me. Don’t forget to download the post-concert analysis podcast, including exclusive interviews with some of the key players. Night all.

Not Waving But Drowning

Imagine you have a hobby. Maybe you do. Perhaps you like to paint. Or play netball. Or build models of San Francisco out of toothpicks.

You get the idea.

Most of the people I come across in my regular working life have a hobby: they play a musical instrument.

Incidentally, before I get on to the main business of this blog, I must urge you, if you haven’t already done so, to seek out and befriend an amateur musician. Two or three, why not? If you can steer them away from subjects like Bruckner symphonies, awkward fingerings in Sibelius tone poems, and the relative merits of recordings of Wagner’s Ring Cycle, they are extraordinarily invigorating and enjoyable company. What’s more, the standard achieved by amateur orchestras and choirs in this country is little short of staggering - as if I, a dedicated but limited Sunday cricketer, were taking on a County attack and scoring fifties, if not hundreds, on a regular basis.

If you are neither a cricket nor a classical music fan, you may not have made it through that last paragraph. Sorry about that.

Anyway, let me return to my muttons, as the saying very nearly has it.

My hobby is standing in front of the aforementioned musicians waving my arms, all the while hoping that my efforts will in some way improve the sound they are making. Luckily for me, I also make my living from it. I understand this is what is known nowadays as a win/win.

You may not know anything about classical music. Even if you do, it’s probable that you’re ignorant about exactly what it is that conductors do.

Yes, that’s right, we collect the fares.

Ha ha.

Well done.

May I continue?

The art of conducting (and yes it is an art, but this is the last time I will take it seriously in this post) is so complex that several widthy books have been written about it, a lot of them as off target as this penalty kick. They will typically include diagrams of what we in the trade call ‘beating patterns’ - ‘different ways of waving your arms around’ to anyone else - the practice of which can cause the budding conductor severe muscular and frontal lobe injuries should they not exercise due care and attention.

These very gestures, finely honed over decades of intensive and draining study, are the selfsame ones that are ignored by orchestras the world over, from Aalborg to Zanzibar (both now permissible in Scrabble, incidentally).

This is the natural way of things. Orchestras know best.

But what do these gestures mean?

Well it’s complicated. Let me talk you through some of the gestures that make up the average (and believe me, we’re mostly average) conductor’s stock-in-trade.

The All-Purpose ‘Starting-Everyone-Off’ Gesture
Otherwise known as the ‘upbeat’ (a misnomer if ever there was one), this is usually a nervous upwards jerk with both arms, somewhere during the fallout of which the benighted orchestra is expected to play together. The conductor, sensing an ominous silence of the kind not experienced since Marcel Marceau and Harpo Marx went on a day trip to a trappist monastery, then jiggles his arms about a bit on the way down, in the hope that someone, somewhere, will interpret it as an invitation to play.

This renders the meaning of the gesture, already oblique, completely impenetrable.

The ‘Oh Bugger I’ve Started Too Fast’ Flail
The trouble with this one, which resembles little more than a flightless bird trying to defy gravity and evolution simultaneously, is that it simply gets in the way. The damage is done. The orchestra, which, remember, always knows best, has already gone off at the speed you gave them with your first gesture (see above). Too late now, mate. If you wave your arms slower, half of them will go with you, and the other half will stay the same speed. The music will die, and it will be your fault.

Music-murderer. Blood on your hands. Shame on you.

The ‘You Shouldn’t Have Played There’ Shimmy
Usually directed at a player who has been sitting around doing nothing for a while, like a trombonist (and before all the trombonists reading this start complaining, and you know who you are, just take a long hard look in the mirror and then tell me I’m wrong).

Where was I?

Oh yes. The shimmy. The way it works is this:

1. The player, whether trombonist or not, has not had anything to play for a while, and has lost track of where they are. This is emphatically the composer’s fault for not giving them enough to do.
2. Thinking they recognise the bit the second clarinet has just played, they hastily stop playing ‘Words For Free’ on their iPhone, pick up their instrument and start playing music instead.
3. Loudly.
4. In a quiet bit.
5. The conductor, sensing something is wrong, but not sure exactly what, looks up, sees guilty trombonist (let’s say - it’s just a hypothetical example, for God’s sake, don’t be so touchy) and gives ‘em the shimmy.

The shimmy requires co-ordination: the left hand must clearly send the message to the errant player ‘you’ve come in two bars early, but it’s ok we all make mistakes, now all you have to do is keep calm and start the next bit, you know the one starting with the rising diminished fifth...HERE!’; the right hand must continue conveying flowing rhythm and expression to the rest of the orchestra as if nothing untoward was going on. The effect should resemble an expert maitre d’ removing a fly from a customer’s wine glass while diverting his attention with a well-directed compliment about his tie.

It usually looks more like a startled man hiding a pornographic magazine from his wife.

The ‘More Expression’ Left-Hand Flemble
A cross between a flap and a tremble, this gesture is designed to encourage a more expressive style of playing (usually, for some reason, from the first violins. Probably because they’re nearest). Unfortunately, as the co-ordination required to execute the gesture takes up all of the conductor’s available RAM, it usually results in stasis of the right hand, and the music, more often than not, falls apart just a teensy bit.

This can engender a modicum of panic in the ranks, which in turn leads to:

The ‘Getting-It-All-Going-Again’ Thrash
The conductor is under the impression that faster and larger gestures will be clearer.

Wrong.

It just looks as if he is drowning.

Eventually everything settles down, and the musicians remember that the conductor is like the national speed limit: everyone ignores him, but it's kind of comforting to know he’s there. They can then get on with the business of listening to each other and playing together (driving safely) while very occasionally slowing down to sixty-eight miles an hour (watching the conductor) when they see a police car (when they think he's looking).

After a while we come to:

‘The Wrapping-It-All-Up’ Lung
Somehow, the music needs to stop. Regardless of how they negotiate the final bars, the conductor must do one of two things, depending on the circumstances.
If the music finishes loudly: stiff outstretched arms, open mouth.
If the music finishes quietly: exaggeratedly long silence after the final chord, closed eyes.

NB These are not optional.

As the applause begins, a relieved smile and nodding head are usual. These purport to mean ‘well done everyone, you were great' but actually mean 'well done me, I'm great, aren't I?'

So there you have it. A crash course in conducting. Why not give it a go yourself?

Next week: the rehearsal, including 'Stopping After You've Made A Mistake And Pretending You Heard A Wrong Note In The Woodwind Section’ and 'Anecdotes - How And When To Tell Them'.